


Those Who Fight Monsters

by ThetaSigma



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Canon-typical sexual assault mentions, Dark, Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, M/M, Not quite canon-typical murders, Serial Killer, The character death is really small and at the end, don't let it put you off?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: Written as the first of my Fandom Loves Puerto Rico offers.There's a serial killer in New York, known as the Night Ripper. The profilers had determined the Ripper was a young man, white, with a strong sense of morality but one that didn’t necessarily fit into what others may consider moral. They said he lived at home with his parents, was likely un- or underemployed, well-educated, possibly a philosophy major in college. Clear knowledge of forensics. Obsessive and detail-oriented, possibly compulsively clean and neat. Few friends, no significant other. A loner. Bland face and personality, easy to hide in crowds.They couldn't have been more wrong about that.





	Those Who Fight Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sidewinder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewinder/gifts).



> This is my Fandom Loves Puerto Rico offer, for sidewinder, who has wanted this fic from me for _ages_ now.

“The Night Ripper struck again,” Liv says by way of greeting when Munch walks in the door.

“Oh? Who’d he kill this time?” Munch asks curiously, pouring a coffee and handing it to Fin before pouring his own. Fin is rubbing his eyes blearily. Liv wonders just what kind of ‘late night’ those two had – they’ve not got a case, right now. (It’s not really much of a wonder – she’s caught them kissing a few too many times to wonder just what those two get up to. Part of her _does not want to know_. Part of her _really_ wants to know. They’re strangely gorgeous together. She shakes her head to clear the thoughts).

“Sebastian Wilkes,” Liv says grimly.

Fin scoffs. “Like I’m gonna waste tears on Seb fucking Wilkes.” He downs the coffee in one go.

Liv doesn’t even argue. Frankly, she’s not heartbroken either. Seb Wilkes had been a nasty son-of-a-bitch, a cocaine-using banker who first gouged people’s retirement funds for money for his addiction, then moved onto killing people he’d convinced to either take out a large insurance policy or add him to their wills.

And the bastard had still managed to _walk_ , somehow, the jury acquitting him in less than two days. 

So, no, none of SVU is grieving. It hadn’t been their case – nothing sexual about it, just down-and-out greed – but they’d certainly heard enough about it.

“What’d the Ripper do to him?” Munch asks.

“Disemboweled him. Gutted him like he gutted those accounts.”

“Fitting,” Munch says, then heads to his desk.

*** 

The Night Ripper was almost legend by now in Manhattan. He’s been killing for nearly two years, no recognizable pattern, and always, always criminals who’d gotten away with it. Papers called him a Modern Day Robin Hood, The Batman of Manhattan, amongst others, and there were several collections for his eventual legal fund. For whenever – _if_ – he got caught.

Truth be told, the NYPD isn’t looking all that hard for him. There isn’t a precinct left in Manhattan that hasn’t had one of their worst offenders taken out by the Ripper, some lowlife motherfucker the courts couldn’t touch. After every murder, there’s the obligatory investigation period, but it drops as soon as possible. 

There isn’t even a precinct that agrees whose _case_ this is. The Night Ripper’s file’s been passed like a hot potato, precinct to precinct, no one squad willing to work it until closed.

1PP isn’t even breathing down their necks about it. It’s the first time a murderer has been _good_ for the city, and they all make the right noises about how horrible this is, and how this isn’t justice, and we can’t have vigilantes, but privately, everyone from the Chief of Ds to the cadets in the Academy are more or less okay with his presence in the city. (And every single cop in the city has contributed to at least one collection for the Ripper’s eventual defense fund – anonymously, quietly, furtively, but every last one has given a minimum of ten dollars to a collection. (All told, the collections, totaled together, are nearing 2 _million_ dollars. When – if – the Ripper gets caught, he will be able to afford the absolute best legal protection)).

And by now, after 72 murders, the only people who are worried about the Night Ripper are looked at with extreme suspicion. _Everyone_ knows the Ripper only kills criminals. And _bad_ ones. Five, even ten murders weren’t quite enough to make everyone sure of that, but 72 (counting Wilkes)? The guy targets criminals.

Most people in New York feel safer now.

*** 

“Ripper hit one of ours last night,” Cragen says when Munch and Fin walk in. “Katie Simpson, remember her?”

“The psychopath who decapitated her children so she could get the insurance payouts? Yeah, a little hard to forget her.”

“Her defense had the jury believing she was a saint,” Fin growls. “Never seen anyone’s eyes look so cold. She was _gleeful_ when we interviewed her.”

“Well, you know how it goes,” Cragen says. “Whichever precinct the Ripper’s victim came from is the one to investigate the newest murder. Unless you’re finally interested in taking the Ripper case permanently?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Munch says immediately. “Public opinion would be permanently against the police if we find the guy. Can’t exactly argue that Simpson was a good woman in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Cragen makes a thoughtful ‘hm’ sound. “Not strictly the way we’re supposed to be thinking, but I don’t think there is a cop in Manhattan who’d disagree,” he admits. 

Munch and Fin find about as much evidence to figure out who the Ripper is as the previous 72 disjointed investigations had.

It’s not exactly like they’re bringing their A-game to this case, though (there hadn’t been a cop at SVU who would’ve balked at killing Simpson, to be frank).

And the Ripper is _good_. There’s never even a shred of forensic evidence left at the scene. All the cases had been publicized. Nothing on the traffic cams. No witnesses. The victims’ routines had been learned in advance and taken ruthless advantage of. The method of killing varied, and even for the similar ones (because for 73 murders, it’s hard as hell not to repeat oneself) the weapon was different. And never, ever a gun, which could be traced. Always something else, and always a mass-produced version. Nothing special. Nothing traceable.

Their profilers had determined the Ripper was a young man, white, with a strong sense of morality but one that didn’t necessarily fit into what others may consider moral (witness: the killings, which all targeted criminals). They said he lived at home with his parents, was likely un- or underemployed, well-educated, possibly a philosophy major in college. Clear knowledge of forensics. Obsessive and detail-oriented, possibly compulsively clean and neat. Few friends, no significant other. A loner. Bland face and personality, easy to hide in crowds.

(They couldn’t have been more wrong).

*** 

Munch pulls off his gloves and drops them carefully into a plastic bag. They’re covered in blood, unfortunately – the latest victim had bled fucking _everywhere_. He needs a damn shower. 

Fin’s stripping his gloves too and bitching about his coat. “Do you _know_ how hard leather is to clean, John?” he bitches. “If I’d’ve known this one was so fucking bloody, I’d’ve worn a sweater or something, not my coat!”

“Fin, my love, you saw me bring the knife. What did you think?”

Fin sighs. “I don’t know, babe, I really don’t.”

Munch looks at him worriedly. “Regrets?”

“Oh, _fuck_ , no,” Fin says immediately, bunching the coat into the plastic bag and stripping off his shirt. Munch looks on appreciatively, but right now isn’t the time for sex. Clean-up first. “She deserved to die. Couldn’t even get a prison sentence for her. God, I wanted to kill her right in the interview room.”

“Bit risky, though, killing another SVU perp so soon after Katie Simpson,” Munch says. “Too late to worry about that now, but maybe we should stay away from SVU cases for a bit?”

“Eh, I mean, everyone knows SVU gets the really _sick_ fucks,” Fin argues. “Makes sense the Ripper kills more of ours, yeah?”

Munch wraps his arms around Fin. “I just don’t want us to be caught, my dear.” He places a gentle kiss on Fin’s lips. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from you.”

“Nor I, you,” Fin says, returning the kiss, letting it grow heated.

Munch pulls away with difficulty – killing always makes both of them near-desperate for each other. “Evidence disposal first,” he gasps. “Before we forget and get sloppy.”

Fin places one last, swift kiss on John’s lips and nods. “Later, though, I’m going to fuck you so hard no one will wonder why we had such a late night, once they see how well-fucked you look.”

John arches an eyebrow. “Promises, promises.” (Really, though, their marriage – and the knowledge, around SVU at least, that they’re insatiable horndogs – has prevented anyone from wondering why they’re so fucking tired after a Ripper attack. He _knows_ they’re all assuming marathon sex, and they make sure to have that kind of all-night sex some non-attack nights, too. No patterns. That’s the rule. _No patterns_. Even if no one suspects them _now_ , being tired only after attacks would draw the wrong kind of attention).

*** 

This is how it started, two years or so ago:

There had been a case. A really, really brutal case. Not one of theirs, luckily, but it spread from precinct to precinct. A pair – husband and wife, most had thought, but there were some who were convinced it was brother and sister (it turned out _both_ were true) – had lured people back to their house, tortured them for weeks, then ate the remains. It had turned into a manhunt, and there wasn’t a precinct that hadn’t lent at least one cop to the effort.

Cornered and desperate, the husband/brother had fired wildly into the crowd of police officers. The wife/sister had managed to get several shots of her own off. Fifteen injured, two dead. 

John and Fin had been there, John directing a group as sergeant, Fin in position to take a shot. Neither of them had been shot, but one of the men John had been leading _had_ been. John remembers his blood under his hands still.

And the wife/sister had _walked_. Despite the cop-killing, despite the torture, despite _reams and reams_ of evidence, despite everything, her defense team had the jury convinced it had been all her… fine, _partner’s_ idea, and spun a tale of abuse and incest and horrible _lies_. Not one of the things the woman had said on the stand held up as true.

After acquittal, she admitted it. Double-jeopardy attached, and nothing they could do but let her waltz off into the sunset.

John had been _shaking_ with fury. He’s always been against the death penalty. If murder is wrong, the state shouldn’t be participating. He’s often wryly agreed with Carlin that murder is wrong simply because the state doesn’t like competition, and it’s _that thought_ which sparks this whole crazy thing. Because, well, what difference does it make whether it’s the state or a private individual who does the execution?

But he knows he could never, ever keep something of this magnitude from his husband – and moreover, he’s pretty sure Fin feels the same way. So. He brings it up tentatively one day. 

Fin isn’t even shocked. He’s been feeling homicidal himself. They discuss it for days, quietly, in bed, fans and noise machines running to drown out their soft, low voices. And they plan their first murder together.

And once they’re done, back at home, disposing of evidence and scrubbing themselves clean in the shower, they have near-violent sex, they’re so fucking turned on. It’s not really about the killing, more about having been together, still being _alive_ , nothing having gone _wrong_ , when so so so much _could have_.

Two weeks later, they realize there’s a lot of criminals getting away with a lot of shit, and well. 

74 murders later, here we are.

*** 

Murder 97 is going well. After over twenty non-SVU perps, they finally go after another one – a sick child-raping motherfucker who had used the biggest, longest, thickest dildo he could find on children, and they’re really, really eager to kill this bastard.

Because the courts had found him innocent, bought his sweet, loveable old priest act, and after sitting with the victims before, during, and after, there’s not much that will stop Fin and John from killing this guy.

They’ve tracked him to a seedy bar and are dragging him down an alley to take him to a nice, quiet place to kill him.

And then they’re spotted.

_Fuck_ , they both think. They’re wearing masks, bland clothing, hats, gloves, there’s nothing immediately identifiable about them. Neither are sure the witness could even give a skin color – all they are sure the witness can tell is height and weight.

Still. A risk.

But. They had agreed, early on, before any killings: Never an innocent. Never someone who didn’t _deserve_ to die. Never, ever a bystander. That would make _them_ the monsters. (A Nietzsche quote floats across John’s brain, but he swats it away. Now is not the time).

John nods pleasantly to the witness, trying to communicate _‘we are not a threat to you’_. He expects the witness to call 911. 

The witness comes a little closer but hangs back. He doesn’t _look_ afraid. “You’re the Ripper, aren’t you?” he asks breathlessly. “The Night Ripper. Oh, wow, I never thought it was a _team_ , oh that’s just _so cool_.”

John doesn’t speak – the witness doesn’t look like he’s going to turn them in, but he’s still not giving away any part of his identity he can avoid.

“YES A TEAM,” Fin’s altered voice booms out. It’s clearly being run through a voice-distorter, and John wonders just how long Fin’s been carrying that around, waiting for the moment he _needed_ it. Fin, he thinks fondly, is so, so good at preparing for the inevitable. As good as him. It’s why they make such a pair in everything they do together. “WE WON’T HURT YOU,” his voice crackles out.

“No, of course not,” the witness says. “You only hurt the bad guys. I’m, uh, I’m just gonna… I’d ask you to sign something, but no, can’t let anyone know you’ve been spotted, right. I’m just gonna go. Don’t worry about me. I’m like your biggest fan.” He’s breathless with excitement, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to leave them to their killing.

John and Fin aren’t quite sure whether to continue or not. In the end, they decide they may as well – the priest _would_ be able to identify them later, as they had lured him using their police IDs (the only weak part in the plan, unfortunately, but people went anywhere a cop told them to, and it’s not like any of them lived to tell about it. They made quite, quite sure of _that_ ). Not killing the priest tonight won’t protect them. Killing him might _just_. Besides, if they’re going to go down, they may as well do it having removed this sick bastard from the world first.

*** 

They’re nervous for several weeks after Father O’Malley turns up dead. Eventually, as no one comes forward that they _saw_ the Ripper(s) in action, they breathe easier. And if it’s been a little longer than usual between murders, well… Even killers take vacations, don’t they? 

Three weeks after O’Malley, they pick a new victim. It’s time to get back in the game. Somehow, no matter how quickly they kill the criminals off, there’s another seven ready for execution. 

*** 

Nearly three years have gone by since their first murder. They’ve only been surprised at the scene once, by that witness/fanboy, and nothing ever came of that (John has privately said to Fin, the young idiot’s probably jerking off to the memory most nights. Fin had just snorted in amusement).

They’re confident – not _cocky, mistakes_ get made when killers get _cocky_ – but after well over 100 murders, they’ve got this _down_. 

But luck doesn’t really last forever, not even when you take precautions, and they’re interrupted during murder 159. (At least, John thinks it’s 159. Honestly, it may be as high as 162 by now, it’s really hard to keep track, and he doesn’t want to recheck the Ripper file, because, well. Duh.)

They’re in PPE, having learned cleanup is so, so much easier if they wear PPE at the scene. Something that keeps crime scenes from being contaminated by police will also keep crime scenes from being contaminated by killers (who are also police, let’s be _totally_ fair here).

The victim isn’t dead quite yet, but close. Bleeding out as John works on slicing open the abdomen. Vivisection is something they do only when _particularly_ disgusted by the criminal – some they just kill quickly and quietly, almost mercifully, others they, well, torture to death. Depends on the crime.

And then light from a flashlight pierces the warehouse. It’s one of the ones they use semi-frequently, abandoned and far from any signs of life at night. They gagged the victim anyway, make sure she doesn’t make noise, and they’re not quite sure how they’ve been found, but something in their gut tells them, _this isn’t a fan coming for us now_.

Fin and John look at each other, silently communicating. 

_Keep to the one rule?_ Fin’s look asks.

_Yes. Yes_. John’s answers.

Fin manages to communicate, _We’ll be sent to jail and apart._

And John’s look is infinitely sorrowful – he never wants to be anywhere but Fin’s side – but killing an innocent is just not on. And Fin sees all that, and his look is one of relief, of agreement, and of sorrow.

But it’s been a really good run. Few serial killers make it over a hundred without _any_ clues to their identity. John reaches down and slices across the victim’s jugular, just so there’s at least no _testimony_ against them. 

They each remind themselves of certain things: There’s no distinct pattern to the killings. Nothing that would hold up in court, other than _all criminals_. It would take a really good lawyer to argue that these 150-160 killings have all been done by _one_ team. It was one of the reasons they insisted on no patterns. They’ve been caught at the scene of _one_ crime. There is nothing linking them. There has never been a trace of forensic evidence.

The same thought occurs to both of them at once. They’re _cops_. If they strip the PPE now, they can pretend to have just found the victim!

Fin and John struggle quickly out of the PPE. John throws the knife he’s been using some distance from them, and they pull out their own flashlights (the light coming in from the broken windows had been more than enough for the killing). 

“Hello?” John calls. “Someone there?”

No answer. 

“This is the police!” Fin calls.

“Munch? Fin?” a voice asks, coming closer.

It’s _Liv_. 

“What are you doing here?” Liv asks warily. 

“Uh, anonymous tip,” Fin says quickly.

Liv frowns. “Yeah, then two people called about this warehouse. Funny, Cragen didn’t say he sent you, too.”

Oh _shit oh shit oh **shit**_.

She says slowly, “You know, I always thought the Ripper was a cop. A really, really good one, who played by the rules during the day, and knew how not to get caught at night. And… well….”

They try not to hold their breaths. Anything other than nonchalance would be fatal right now. They’ve been discovered at the scene. By _Liv_. Fuck.

“I always wondered why there weren’t more SVU perps in the mix,” she continues. “Any other cop would’ve cheerfully taken out the sick fucks we see. But not an _SVU_ cop – they’d want focus off them, wouldn’t they? So. You two. You’re the Ripper.”

John pulls out his handcuffs. He knows Liv only has one pair on her, and there are two of them. “Here,” he says. “You may as well do the honors.”

Liv blinks at him, then closes his fingers around the cuffs and pushes them back towards him. “No,” she says. “I’m not going to arrest you. Honestly, the last person I ever wanted to have to arrest was the Ripper.” She smiles sardonically. “Makes me a pretty bad cop, doesn’t it? This, though, this makes me worse: I want to _join_ you. I can’t tell you how many of these people I want to kill, too.”

Fin and John look at each other, having another conversation just through looks (oh, God, they are _such_ an old married couple, Liv thinks fondly).

_What harm could it do?_ Fin’s expression asks.

_No more than her knowing and not joining us, as long as we’re careful and she knows our rules_ , John’s manages to convey. Somehow. His eyebrows are _really_ expressive.

“Yeah, okay, but we’ve got ground rules. For ourselves, too,” John adds quickly. “Number one is no killing innocents. No matter who stumbles onto us, we turn ourselves in instead of killing them.”

“I kinda got that when you didn’t threaten me,” Liv says. “What else? How have you avoided being caught so long?”

“Not here,” Fin says. “Cragen’s waiting for the report from you, isn’t he? Anonymous tip at a warehouse. Tell him you found the latest body. Let the case die down a bit. Then meet us for dinner sometime next week, and we’ll talk. We soundproofed the apartment _ages_ ago.”

“So you could discuss this?” Liv asks.

“No, because our neighbors kept complaining about the sex noises,” John says deadpan, and Liv’s not even sure if that’s a joke or not.

*** 

Between the three of them, they are never caught. The Night Ripper’s legend grows over the following years, as the murders pile up, and the police are generally just as baffled as they had been after the first killings.

When John dies, of old age, some thirty years later, they’d killed _thousands_. They had slowed down with age, as they got older and slower and creakier, and in the five or six years preceding John’s death, they had only killed two or three dozen people at best.

Fin follows John into the grave within a month – he has zero interest in living without John, and his body more or less gives up the ghost. 

On his deathbed, he hands Liv a manuscript. It’s handwritten, which had been odd 30 years ago, and is even more odd now. 

She glances at John’s writing on the cover. _The Night Rippers: An Autobiography_.

“For after you go, if you don’t mind. Let them find out who kept killing in Manhattan for 34 years without ever having been caught.”

Liv dies five years later.

A year after _her_ death, _The Night Rippers: An Autobiography_ hits the shelves. Liv had gone through and added her thoughts after the relevant chapters, which had been written both by John and Fin. She’d been a little disappointed she was never invited to write it with them, but it had likely been something they’d done in quiet, secret, and together. A way to relive the earlier days of their marriage and love (and there’s quite a bit about that in the book, too).

It’s made into a feature film, starring terrible actors far too young to have convincingly been any of them. (Liv’s casting is the worst – the actress is about 20. Hollywood really never changes).

The legal defense fund collections, which had been maintained because the killings hadn’t stopped (until John’s death), now total close to 20 million dollars. The people holding on to them aren’t quite sure what to do with the money (they erect statues of John, Fin, and Liv in the city with the money, in the end).

The city, realizing the Night Rippers are dead, goes a bit nutty. Copycats flourish, but are quickly caught (the book had carefully omitted just _how_ they’d gotten away with it for so long).

And Manhattan never forgets their serial killing Robin Hoods. Unauthorized monuments are erected in their honor, and there’s no one in charge who really has the heart to take them down. Most of them feel safer because of having grown up when the Rippers were active, after all. Criminals rarely had chances to reoffend, at least with the really horrible stuff. 

The legend gets passed from generation to generation, turning into a ghost story: “They say the Rippers are still out there, protecting us. Remember, if you’re bad, if you do something really, really horrible, the Rippers will get you!” Some think that one day, when the world goes to utter shit, the Rippers will return (like King Arthur or Wenceslas). Some people don’t believe that the Rippers ever existed. 

But they did. And except for a serial killing hobby, they were pretty good people, all around.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote John's thinking of (and where the title is from) is: "Those who fight monsters should take care that they themselves don't become one. For as you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." (It's perhaps my favorite quote).
> 
> (Also, there is a super minor Sherlock reference tucked away in here. Bonus points/internet cookies for anyone who spots it!)


End file.
